


Prodigy

by PeonyBlack



Series: Prodigy [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 14:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14979410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeonyBlack/pseuds/PeonyBlack
Summary: Philo is not the best master. Glen is not the best slave. They both go to school.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older story I decided to move here. Un-betaed.

Master Architect Philo of Reusa was the last to join the meeting in the Red Hall.

  
His tall frame fashionably wrapped in white and green silk, he walked in, casually carrying his papers, moments after the other members of the Academy had already gathered, and gave a distant salute. The older members interrupted their lively conversation, which had revolved around the building model on the table in front of them, to glance at him with unfriendly eyes before returning it rather reluctantly.

  
The air in the room, which thus far had been cordial enough, had shifted, as though the soft breeze from the sea had carried in a sudden chill. Where he stood, waiting in the shadow of the colonnades, Glen sensed it, too. He fidgeted, searching the protection of the wall behind him, and carefully ran the little he knew about Master Philo in his head.

  
Everyone was exasperated with the young architect, who’d acted from the very first day as though he owned the place, paying no heed to the long-set protocol of the Academy. That, some said, was because he happened to be brilliant, and also arrogant, keeping to himself every Sixth Night, when the other masters gathered in the library for their endless talks. Or, others claimed, because he also happened to be the King’s nephew, granted, far enough along the line to make a difference in the succession. There were even some that said both reasons were equally valid. All kind of opinions had been voiced on the hallways of the Academy, around corners or behind closed doors, but it was still a matter of controversy.

  
There had also been incidents, the echoes of which had travelled as far as the kitchen where Glen lingered on those evenings when he couldn’t get himself inside the library and settled for a warm, silent corner to sulk. In the course of a particularly heated discussion, Master Philo had called Simon, one of the most respectable Masters, an old fool. He’d made some of the younger disciples cry after crashing their models into the ground, for what else was one to do with such garbage? He’d told Eleas of Seone, whose father was the King’s treasurer, that he was a walking, breathing waste of good money. He’d had a slave beaten with the stick for as little as changing the order of the papers on his desk. The stories were told over and over and the particulars, conflicting enough, but there was a point on which everyone agreed: Master Philo was stern and intimidating and it didn’t seem like a good idea to cross him.

  
Glen, who sometimes served in the Red Hall, had already gathered as much. Of course, no one had asked him. Who ever needed the opinion of house slave? But he'd never sneaked in to listen to his lectures, like he did with the other Masters whenever he had the chance. Even though he was burning with curiosity, he was firm in his decision to put as much distance as possible between him and the Master Architect.

  
He stirred from his thoughts and turned his attention to the discussion in the Hall. Master Philo was explaining the design, answering with something akin to disdain to the timid questions the others asked from time to time. A few months back the King had decided that the city walls needed reinforcement and had requested for a model. The project was seen as a priority, but the advancement was slow to register for a number of reasons, last but not least because of the divergences between the Masters.

  
But now they finally had one. As inconspicuously as possible, Glen stole glances at it, trying to figure out how it might actually look if built. He’d never seen the ramparts before, or much of the city, for that matter. Unlike the other slaves here, who seemed to come from everywhere in the Empire (something that, Glen suspected, was in line with the Masters’ penchant for collecting oddities), he was born and raised in the Academy and had little reason to leave the campus. The errands he ran now and then had only taken him so far, but he’d always wanted to learn more and he couldn’t let the chance go by.  
He was amazed by the size of it. The fortification followed the shoreline, a continuous, thick wall of sandstone surrounding the city two times over. But the most remarkable thing of all it was the gate. Actually, the gates. He counted four of them, heavy and bordered by four-storied towers, which had been cut into the enclosure of stone. The design was daring, with the high towers projecting as near semicircles on the sides, yet still solid, still strong. A powerful defence and a symbol, too, and Glen found himself trapped in whirlpool of frightful excitement, taken with the wonderful music of the numbers. Such a building, with its lasting firmness, was a wonder in itself. But to be able to see it before it even existed, creation ahead of creation, nothing but lines and numbers, and the sheer power of the mind!

  
He couldn’t even begin to picture how that must feel like, but every single time the notion stirred a deep, overwhelming hunger inside of him. He was no stranger to hunger, so he knew no amount of food would assuage this one. It was almost like a sickness that gripped him, pushing him to take stupid chances, like hiding into the auditoriums, or creeping into the library under the threat of the overseer’s strap, another thing with which he was well acquainted – closer than he would have liked, if he were to be honest.

  
Or eavesdropping on the Masters’ discussions, like he was right about now. Except that he was finding it harder and harder to resist. He’d done it all over and over, watched the disciples go by, to the point where he’d learnt almost all the answers by now. On occasions, he could even guess the question before the Master asked it. It seemed to him that his drawings, too, were getting better. Sometimes, he forgot himself enough to imagine he could do better than those rich boys who came and went through the Academy. Those rich, free boys. Luckily, it didn’t take much for him to come back with his feet on the ground.

  
“Cyrus, what do you think?” Master Philo was asking.

  
“It is impressive, Philo,” the older Master answered cautiously. “Nonetheless, you should inspect the walls, and thoroughly; register anything you may find and that, in your opinion, needs mending.”

  
“Me?!” Master Philo sounded outraged. “I am not a mason, nor am I a field soldier to walk the ramparts. I’d hardly know what to look for!”

  
“Then your design remains a dream, ungrounded in reality,” Master Cyrus said. “A beautiful fantasy, granted. But of no use to the city or to the King. Accept that your calculation needs checking.”

  
Glen registered the reaction of the assembly, the shock followed quickly by subdued, approving murmurs, as though the Masters themselves had a hard time believing that someone was finally standing up to Master Philo. This should be interesting! Unobserved, Glen blended into the wall a little more.

  
“My calculation is correct.” Bristling with indignation, the young Master shook his head, flying his dark locks around his shoulders in plain, outward denial. “This is unnecessary, as it is demeaning!”

  
“If these are your terms, do not count on my support,” Master Cyrus stated in a voice that allowed no argument. “Or anyone’s in this room.”

  
The other Masters nodded in agreement. But they would not raise their eyes. Glen had done enough pretending of his own to realize that their careful examination of the model was simply that – pretence.

  
“I’ll just have to manage, won't I?” The anger that had ridden Master Philo’s sharp features a moment ago was suddenly erased, replaced by his usual aloof expression. He stood up abruptly, and straightened imaginary wrinkles from his clothes.

  
“Gentlemen.”

  
The word hung in the air as the door opened and closed behind him, like an insult. The Masters took a brief moment before they stirred.

  
“Such arrogance!”

  
“Unacceptable! Very well done, Cyrus!”

  
“Hmm…” The old Master’s lips were pursed in discontent. “I have to wonder whether it was a good idea to antagonize him openly. The Academy is hardly the place for strife. He even left his papers behind.” His eyes circled the room, sharper than his age would have accounted for and came to stop on Glen. “You, boy! Gather these and take them to Lord Philo’s rooms!”  
Glen felt the blood rush through his veins. So much for his decision of keeping his distance, he thought, as he walked to the table with his head bowed, suddenly grateful for his too long hair that hid his eyes. He was born and raised in the Academy, after all, and even if seventeen wasn’t such a long time, it was certainly enough for him to acknowledge how things stood: an angry Master and a house slave to remind him of the very source of his anger. He collected Master Philo’s papers with unsteady hands: It did not bode well.

 

***  
The Academy was a sheltered, secluded place, but echoes of the busy life in the city reached inside its walls: It wasn’t surprising, with all the people going in and out, coming from all over to seek knowledge or advice in what was generally acknowledged as the academic centre of the known world.

  
That, plus the books, had helped Glen learn a lot of stuff. He knew, for instance, how the priests in the temple claimed that touching the golden statue of the god in the altar would cause a man’s flesh to scorch and fall like old paper. He’d never stepped foot inside the temple, of course. It was hardly the place for a slave of the Academy, where the very existence of gods was a subject of heated debate, but he’d heard Master Simon recount that particular story over and over to his disciples in his high-pitched, contemptuous voice and was familiar with it.

  
The Masters questioned everything, and Glen liked to think he’d taken to that habit himself. He wasn’t a boor from the plains to believe in unseen spirits that walked the earth, even though with his looks – the too light skin and the reddish brown hair - he was often mistaken for one.

  
It mattered little. Truth was, Glen had no idea where he was coming from, other than the Academy, nor did he care. He knew that gold – regardless of the shape in which it might have been moulded – was merely metal, even if life and death were bought and paid with it. But as he walked down the richly decorated corridors, he was starting to wonder whether there was some truth to that story, because he was carrying Master Philo’s designs and he could just swear that the paper was turning hot under his fingers.

  
He’d hurried out of the Red Hall, hoping against hope that Master Philo might still be somewhere in sight. That maybe he would not want to make a public spectacle of his anger, and if that was the case, then maybe – just maybe– he would be able to hand over the designs, say a few polite, obsequious words, if it couldn’t be avoided, and forget he’d ever crossed path with the architect.

  
No such luck. At least a couple of hours remained until the beginning of classes and the place was silent and empty, the army of servants and slaves ready to attend to the Masters’ every whim notwithstanding.

  
It was said that the Academy provided more comforts to the Masters than the King enjoyed in his palace. For what Glen knew, that might very well have been. The King took pride in his Academy and a significant part of the tuition fees went straight into the Masters’ bursary. Not to mention the bribes noble families were rumoured to pay to have their less-gifted scions accepted in. For what Glen knew, that might very well have been, too. The mere thought normally filled him with powerless rage, because let’s face it, some of those young nobles were idiots. But he had other things on his mind to be preoccupied with that specific topic today.

  
Like those blasted papers that currently burnt his hand. Or that little voice whispering in his ear that under no circumstances should he let the opportunity pass. He’d never seen anything so close to perfection like the model of that gate, and that was only what he’d been able to see. The designs had to show everything in detail, every little line or angle or curve - the music of the numbers untamed. What was the harm if before handing over the papers, he took one quick look?  
He could do it and no one would have to know. Could go behind that column. Or inside the small arch at the foot of the stairs. One look no one would have to know about, and then go on his not-so-merry way.

  
Chances were it wouldn’t matter anyway, whether or not he returned the papers untouched. Even if he made the perfect delivery, acted like the perfect Academy slave (and Glen was only too aware of his many shortcomings, had had the overseer recounted them over and over again, to even aspire at such remote standard), the voice insisted it wouldn’t do wonders for Master Philo’s temper. He was due for a punishment either way – overdue, Glen admitted reluctantly, going over his latest misdeeds.

  
He’d listened in on the Masters’ conversations, entered the library without permission, and sat in the back rows during Master Simon’s last lecture. Skies above, he’d stolen (stolen!) a stick of coloured wax someone had left behind in one of the amphitheatres just the other day! He’d really, really made a mess of things and he didn’t experience the slightest remorse. This couldn’t go on forever. The day of reckoning would come, eventually. Based on his personal experience, Glen suspected when it did, it would be a rather painful one, as his list of sins was rather impressive. How much could one look add to it?  
By the time he reached the arch, his mind was made up. He could be quick and he will. Only one tiny look, to see just what made the accursed thing burn.

  
Anticipation throbbed in his body like a drumbeat as he crammed into the narrow enclosure of the arch that gave light to the stairs leading to the first story, where the Masters’ private rooms were. Glen took one deep breath, pulled the papers open and time lost all meaning after that.

***

Master Architect Philo of Rausa could not believe his eyes.

  
When his uncle, the King, had granted his request and appointed him in the Academy, he’d been warned it would not go smoothly. People here were different from those back home. In Rausa, no one would have even dreamed to question that the skills of the Baron’s youngest son went far beyond his years. He’d proven himself in front of the greatest minds in the city, and accomplished his studies at an age when others would only enter the University there.

  
After that, he’d dedicated nearly half a decade travelling all over the civilized world, applying himself to learning the secrets of architecture in every major city, but obviously, all that wasn’t enough. Not to the satisfaction of the the pompous fools here, with their conservative minds and long engrained preconceptions about how things ought to be done.

  
Not even his flawless design of the city walls had served to convince them. The spiteful idiots would rather explain his appointment by the blood ties between him and the King, looking down on him as though he was but a child playing in the sand. As though he didn’t know what he was doing, seeing how, apparently, no opportunity to humiliate him could be missed. Well, let them think what they will. He had the King’s ear and his designs to speak for him after all - though not at the moment, obviously.

  
He’d left the Red Hall in a fit of anger, because he’d been burning with the need to throw everything in their faces and feared that should he remain one moment longer, he just might. Like the fact that the King had entrusted the defence of the city to him and he’d only required their opinion as a gesture, since the King would rather not have the Masters offended. Which was not to mean he needed their approval, because he did not, he'd vowed grudgingly, as he wandered around without purpose, in an attempt to wear off his frustration. What he did need, however, was to trace his lost papers.  
He should have been more careful, Philo admitted remorsefully. He had but himself and his demon of a temper to blame if the plans now fell in the wrong hands. He’d been warned about that, too, and had returned to the Hall to look for them as soon as he’d realized he’d left them behind.

  
He’d found the place empty, of course. Those curmudgeons must have retired into the privacy of their dusty dens to badmouth him the moment he’d stepped foot out of the room. He hoped Master Cyrus had enough brain left to put the drawings to safety, at least, though of course he ought to make sure. It was why he’d swallowed his pride and decided to ask him. He could always claim he’d left them there on purpose, to give the Masters a chance to study them closer, after all. See that his calculations were correct.

  
He’d just taken a turn towards the stairs when he noticed the boy.

  
He was a lanky youth with a long, pale face and unruly hair that hid his eyes, but Philo did not need to see them to realize where he was coming from. Blood of the God, how could he have made such a stupid mistake? The boy was wearing the white tunic of the Academy slaves, though obviously he wasn’t one. Some of them were literate, particularly here, but no slave would have even begun to understand the intricate design of the walls, and this one was immersed in his reading: Too absorbed, in fact, to notice the heavy sound of his boots or the fact that he stood there, staring at him.

  
It was only when he leaned in, looking daggers at him that the boy flinched and blinked back, his already pale face turning another shade of white. It figured. The plains or maybe the Republic, considering the green eyes, and they sure picked them young. That figured, too. It was less conspicuous that way. He gave the boy a cold, poisonous smile.

  
“Interesting read?”

  
Philo had to hand it to him, the boy was good. His knees hit the ground almost instantly, green irises wide, and his voice trembled with just the right amount of panic as he uttered a weak,

  
“Please, forgive me, Master.”

  
But even as he cowered there, putting on the best show of fear Philo had seen in years, his hands were still clasped on the papers. Philo recalled the look in his eyes as he was reading them – that mixture of wonder and appreciation, the glimmer of understanding. Not even the brightest slaves, serving as assistants or scribes, were trained in the higher arts, and his designs were complicated, in general. The Republic, on the other hand, was said to provide a rather thorough education to its citizens.  
Particularly to those citizens who also happened to be -

  
Spies!

  
He was quickly sinking into despair, facing the hopelessness of all the efforts that he’d put into those designs. The secret aqueducts and the tunnels and passages, all meant to ensure the defence of the city – what purpose did they serve, if the enemy already knew? And as far as Philo was concerned, the boy was the enemy.

  
He couldn’t think of a better way to place a spy inside the Academy than the disguise of a slave. They came here from all over the world anyway, something that Philo found not only decadent, but highly perilous. Same as the Masters’ habit of seeing them as nothing but human tools, without a mind of their own. Except that he couldn’t pin this on the Masters, now, could he? Not when he’d brought it all on himself, with his childish anger directed against something he couldn’t control or change. Blood of the God, he was supposed to be the sharpest mind in the Kingdom. How could he have made such a stupid, beginner’s mistake? Blaming himself was no good now, though. What he had to do was think, and fast. Maybe the situation could be salvaged, after all. If he acted fast – and definitely not here, where everyone could see.

  
He took in the boy’s lean frame, as he knelt there, face down-turned. Still in his teens and, Philo suspected, bright to pull out such a stunt. He had but to hope he was smart enough to know his best interest.

  
“None of that,” he ordered, prodding the boy with his booted foot. “Up, now!”

  
The boy jumped to his feet so fast it made Philo’s head spin. His eyes darted to him and he seemed like he was about to say something, but Philo was faster. He grabbed his arm firmly, and dragged him up the stairs. Though he met surprisingly little resistance, it was only when they reached the safety of his private study that Philo let go of the boy's arm and remembered to breathe.

  
He settled in front of the young spy, who’d remained very still in the same spot near the door where he’d released him, holding on to the papers as though they were holly relics. Well trained, he decided, and it definitely showed.

  
“Where did I leave these?”

  
“In the Red Hall, Master,” Glen replied, keeping his eyes on the floor. But he tilted his head a little forward and at an angle, a practised position that allowed him to watch without actually looking. He recognized that cold thing which crawled inside of him for what it was – apprehension. Unlike the other, older Masters, Philo of Rausa was a man in his prime, of more than average height, dark-haired and broad-shouldered, like many in the royal line. He obviously shared the volatile temper normally associated with the dynasty, too. His suave voice was as cold as the stone floor under his bare feet, and the forceful grip of his arm earlier did not announce anything good. Skies above, what had he gotten himself into? He’d done stuff like this - and worse - countless times before! How could he have made such a stupid, beginner’s mistake?

  
“I see. And how exactly did they come to be in your possession?”

  
“Master Cyrus ordered me to gather the papers and bring them to your rooms, Master.” His voice came out shaking and it was both embarrassing, because it revealed his discomfort, and humiliating, because he still liked to claim he maintained a modicum of pride. But that, or blaming himself, didn’t help right now. He needed to think, and fast. Was it better to apologize, or to simply accept whatever decision the lord made? Some Masters, like Master Simon, preferred the first and enjoyed a little show of atonement before deciding on the proper expiation, while the more stoical ones, like Master Cyrus, went for the latter. The earlier apology hadn’t seemed to work much, but still, he’d felt like he ought to try. Before he could make up his mind, however, Master Philo waved his hand, a vague, contemptuous gesture.

  
"Put them over there.”

  
It figures, Glen thought. Could this day turn into more of a disaster? He really, really hated having to guess where exactly “over there” meant. The Master’s hand had seemed to point out in the direction of the desk and he was well aware of the rumours. The last slave to get it wrong had faced a beating with the stick, which, Glen decided, was the best he could hope for, under the circumstances. Considering the odds, maybe it was worth taking the chance, if that meant him not spending one moment more than necessary in Master Philo’s presence.

  
Gathering his resolve, Glen gravitated towards the desk and carefully placed the papers on top of the messy pile of designs, letters, pencils and broken wax sticks, threatening to spill on to the chair and floor. Maybe there was something to this god thing, after all, because by a small miracle, they did not, and he couldn’t hold back a relieved sigh.

  
“Good,” Master Philo said, the line of his mouth harsh. “Now, I want to know who sent you.”

  
What? He’d already explained that, hadn’t he? Glen blinked in confusion.

  
“I’m sorry, Master, I don’t understand.”

  
“Let me spell it out for you, then.” He was watching him closely, well-muscled arms crossed over his chest. “Who. Sent. You?”

  
Glen glanced up warily. “Master Cyrus.”

  
The Master took a threatening step in his direction.

  
“I am not in the mood for games and you really don’t want to make this more difficult than it has to be. How long do you think you’ll last if I hand you over to the King’s Guard? What do you think they'll do to a bloody lying spy such as yourself?”

  
Spy? It sounded so absurd that Glen had to push back the irrational, panicked laughter swelling inside of him and all he could do was blurt out,

  
“I’m not a spy, Master. I’m a slave.”

  
When the blow landed, it sent him stumbling towards the wall. It did not take him by surprise, not exactly. A small part of him had been expecting it ever since the Master first ran into him. What found him unprepared was the force of it, and then the numbness, the total lack of feeling, and the instant of absolute silence before it echoed like distant thunder in his ears and a rolling wave of heat spread wide across the side of his face.

  
“Do you feel particularly suicidal today?”

  
The shock was starting to wear off. Glen ran his tongue over his throbbing lip and found that it was dry and heavy like harsh wool. Maybe he should count himself lucky if he got out of this with a slap, or even a beating, because he didn’t know this Master and he didn’t know what might work. His creeping fear surged with unexpected intensity. What if nothing did? What if the Master decided he was a spy, after all? He could do whatever he wanted - he was a Master and the King’s nephew. Then the King’s Guards would question him – torture him, for sure, since a slave’s testimony wasn’t valid unless given under torture. Glen wasn’t sure he could grasp the implications of that. Right now, the mere idea of being sent away to some unknown place, of leaving behind everything he knew – the classes and the books, those puzzling pieces of knowledge that he gathered and kept with more avarice than a greedy man guarded his gold - was nauseating. All this because this lord would not believe that he really was a slave?

  
He felt his knees give up under him. The stream of his thoughts was becoming sluggish, too, and he had to struggle to find his words.

  
“My lord, I beg of you. Master Cyrus gave me your papers in the Red Hall. I did not damage them, all I did was look. I know that counts, too, and it was wrong and I shouldn’t have, but I ... I didn’t mean anything by it, Master. The layout of the gate was so beautiful, almost like music, except with numbers, and the lines and the ratio, and I didn’t think that was even possible. I only wanted to understand. But I am not a spy – how could I be? I’ve lived here my whole life, since as far as I can remember. I clean the amphitheatres and sometimes, the bursary. I serve in the halls, on occasions. Everybody knows me, the bursar, and Cook, and the overseer. I’m sent there - quite often, if only you wished to enquire with him. I’m not the best slave the Academy had, Master. In fact, I’m a terrible one, because I always misbehave and get myself into trouble, but it is what I am. “

  
A terrible slave? What was he even saying? Glen panted air in desperately, battling against the queasiness and terror that ran through him like a poison.

  
“I have no right to ask and you don’t have to listen to me, obviously, but please, I – I don’t know what it takes for you to believe me, but I’ll do anything if you just – please...”

  
“Stop it,” the Master cut him off. His voice was stern, but without the previous venom. “Shut up – just shut up already! I cannot hear myself think.”

  
He shook his head, much like he’d done earlier in the Red Hall, and started pacing the room swiftly, with his hands clasped behind his back and a dark expression on his face. Glen forced his gasping breath to quiet down. Whatever the Master decided to do about him now, it was out of his hands.

***

  
“What is the ratio of my gate?”

  
Glen couldn’t tell how long he’d been quiet. Time had seemed to shrink around him, menacing and uneven like the rhythm of the Master’s footsteps. He was pacing up and down, stopping occasionally to glare at a wall or corner and never once in his direction before resuming his walk. Nothing had announced the question, spoken as casually as the earlier strike, but it was a direct one, which certainly required an answer.

  
“I believe it’s four, Master,” he said, staring down at his clenched hands and hoping – although he couldn’t understand why – that he’d gotten it right.

  
“Indisputably,” the Master confirmed, scowling. “Let’s assume for the sake of discussion that you are and have always been a slave. How come you understand the ratio?"

  
"But I don’t, Master, not entirely.” A new wave of panic shot through him. “I realize it's four, but there are parts that don't make any sense and I can't tell whether it would hold if built." Oh, no! After what he'd seen in the Hall earlier, that was definitely the wrong thing to say! "I mean, Master Simon always says four is not a good ratio, Master." And now he was criticizing the Master's work, openly! Perhaps he was suicidal, after all! "I don't mean that it won't, Master, just that I don't ... I mean I don't understand, but that is, probably because I am a slave, and not a -”

  
“Are you articulate?”

  
“Pardon, Master?” Glen stammered confused.

  
“Ar-tic-u-late,” the Master emphasized coolly. “The skill to register and recognize words, as well as use them to express your thoughts in a coherent manner,” he added, rolling his eyes. “Do you suppose you have it?”

  
“I … I think so, Master …"

  
“Then, thinker, why don’t you use it, for the sake of all that's holy,” the Master snapped. “And don’t you even try to lie to me, because I’ll know!"

  
Panic had drained the blood from Glen’s face. Shame brought it back with a vengeance. Despite the latest developments, which tended to indicate the contrary, he was not an idiot.

  
“Yes, Master. I’m so –”

  
The Master turned towards him abruptly, crowding his space. It was all Glen could do not to lean away from him as he held out his hand, one finger raised to cut him off.

  
“Of course you’re sorry. You got caught, did you not? Rest assured I realize that and have no need to hear your excuses.” He gave Glen a long, sharp look. “Articulate, no apologies and no lies - three simple rules which I expect you to follow when you answer me this time around.”

  
It occurred to Glen suddenly that this was the end.

  
Since as long as he could remember he’d taken orders, obeyed them, broke them and got punished when caught – all those things that summed up the life of a slave. No one had ever bothered to ask him questions before, not to mention one as impossible as this. If he didn’t answer, the Master Architect will hand him over to the King’s Guard, and chances were he wouldn’t survive his interrogation as a potential spy. But to answer meant to disclose his most cherished and dangerous secret, and openly admit his long-standing, unabashed disregard of the social rules. He will be sold if he did, for certain. Slaves got sold all the time, but those were mainly foreigners that didn’t seem able to adjust. Glen had lived here all his life and had never contemplated the idea that he too, might be risk.

  
Skies above, of course he was - he’d always been, except that he’d refused to see it! He’d gotten so comfortable here, and arrogant, thinking he was so much smarter than the rest of them, and now he was paying the price.

  
“I can read, Master,” he said with resignation. “That is important here, so we’re taught. I go into the library sometimes, without permission, naturally.” Why did it feel so good to say that aloud, as if a weight that’s been constricting his chest had been suddenly lifted? The Master kept staring at him, the look on his face clear indication that his confession so far wasn’t enough. Even if it were, Glen doubted he could stop now. He’d been silent for so long, he might was well speak his mind this last time. “I also hide in the amphitheatres and listen to the Masters’ lectures. I am not allowed that, either, but I’ve heard them countless times, ever since I was a child. I am able to do some of the assignments they give. Most of them,” he confessed, since all sense of propriety had flown off the window as it was. “That is how I learnt what a ratio is.”

  
“Do they ever change?” the Master asked, arching an eyebrow. “The lectures and the assignments,” he clarified. “Do they change, or are they always the same?”

  
He sounded genuinely intrigued, which he was. Philo had always wondered about the teaching methods here, and what exactly made the Masters think this Academy was so much better than the others out there. He’d read their books, with which he openly disagreed on several points, but he couldn’t very well go and sit in on a lecture. That would have been beneath him, same as asking one of the students. It had never occurred to him to ask a slave, naturally, because they weren’t bloody supposed to know! God’s favour, the odds of him crossing paths with a self-taught slave were probably as high as those of him gaining fortune and glory by slaughtering a griffon, and rescuing a bunch of innocent villagers from famine, and redeeming a noble maiden from the hands of her evil captors, in that specific order and all with a hand tied behind his back!

  
But as he stood there, listening to the boy’s passive explanations – yes, the assignments changed, from time to time, but not significantly, and no, the lectures almost never did – and requiring clarifications on this and that detail about the classes, or the Masters, or the Master’s assistants, Philo was being forced to reconsider his earlier premise.

He was starting to suspect that he may, in fact, be a slave, as his behaviour and clothes seemed to indicate from the very beginning. There were too many points supporting the boy’s claims, and he must have known by now that Philo would want to check. Would anyone lie about something so easily certifiable?

  
So the boy was a slave, which meant such a beast as a griffon might exist, after all, and that bitter taste on his tongue might have had more than a little to do with his conscience.

  
He’d made the logical assumption, of course. The inherent works on the walls were hardly a secret. The King had already started negotiations with the bankers and merchants and pressed the nobles to raise the tolls on their estates, in order to gather the necessary funds. Like most members of the royal line – the differences of opinion between him and the rest of his family notwithstanding – Philo was wary of betrayal, having grown up surrounded by deception and conspiracies. He was, however, supposed to be a scholar, and that meant not taking things for granted, and always test his theories. This time around, he’d made an assumption based on looks alone. So maybe the taste on the tip of his tongue wasn’t his conscience, after all. Maybe his genius had suffocated that long ago, and the bitterness he experienced was plain and simple humiliation.  
The sharpest mind in the Kingdom! That didn’t say too much about the overall cerebral competence of his people. The fact that the other Masters had never noticed what the boy could do all these years did nothing but support his conclusion. In his arrogance, he’d thought he was so much better than them, but as it turned out, he was just as obtuse. The terrified, strange-looking slave kneeling in the middle of his office was conclusive evidence of that very fact.

  
Something definitely ought to be done about that.

  
He carried out his careful examination of the boy, focusing on more technical issues this time around. He would never have passed Philo’s tests – but then again, most of his students did not. He was a mess, with no discipline or method to his knowledge, and worse, an obvious product of the techniques of this Academy. Philo could not help but sigh in exasperation at a rather confused answer on the principle of order on the large scale.

  
“Did you ever hide during my lessons?”

  
The boy bit his lips. “No, Master.”

  
“Hmm,” Philo said, surprised to experience disappointment. “At least that explains why you’re such a faithful follower of Simon.”

  
He went to the desk, selecting his designs of the walls and carelessly tossing most of the others onto the floor, something that gained him another furtive, horrified look from the boy. Philo shrugged inwardly. Order was another obsession around here, which he could not understand. He knew were everything was – well, approximately. In any case, the last thing he needed was everything turned upside down in the holy name of tidiness.

  
He lay down the designs on the now empty desk and nodded at the boy.

  
“Get over here.” The boy uncurled his legs from under his body with the enthusiasm of a convict walking to the scaffold and Philo's temper got the better of him.

  
“Can you possibly make it today?” But mostly he was angry at himself. He’d wanted the boy scared before. He didn’t necessarily want that now that he’d decided to perform a closer examination of this … griffon.

  
“You wanted to see the layout. Come on, I’ll show it to you.”

  
A slight, doubtful expression crossed the boy’s features, marred by the red mark blossoming on the side of his face. Philo pursed his lips in discontent. It wasn’t that bad and certainly not permanent, but he will surely hate having to look at it until it went away.

  
“What’s your name?”

  
The boy hesitated. "Glen, Master?" he said, his voice going up a little at the end as though in question, and Philo frowned.

"You're not certain?"

  
"No, Master,” the boy stammered. “I mean, yes, Master. I'm certain. It's Glen."

  
“I’ll have you know, Glen, that there’s nothing wrong with a ratio of four.” He gestured the boy to come closer, moving to the side of the desk to give him some space. “Four seasons, four winds, four entries into the city, four stages in a man’s life,” he counted, extending his fingers. “The way of the nature is always good, which is why I had it all multiplied or divided by four.”  
The boy nodded, staring in awe at the design. Because of that wondrous look, Philo disregarded the obvious lack of respect implied by a non-verbal answer and chose to explain the details of the layout to him with the sort of patience he lacked in all other areas of his life. He could already tell the boy was a handful, but he could also tell he’d gotten most of his explanations and didn’t even flinch when he leaned closer to show him a particularly difficult arch. Philo found that he was strangely pleased.

  
He’d dismissed the idea of taking on an assistant until now, because he’d thought them to be rather useless. Certainly, the idea of teaching a slave – or that they could be taught at all - had never crossed his mind before. At the moment, however, he didn’t see any reason why he’d go about that any differently from teaching anyone else. Such a thing was guaranteed to ruffle the feathers of the Masters - those pompous oafs who'd handed his masterpiece to – well, simply anyone! Philo found that to his grudging satisfaction, too.

  
“I want you to go to the overseer, or whoever around here has the authority,” he said, searching awkwardly through the papers for a clean sheet and a sharp pencil. “I suspect you know who that is better than me. Tell them I want you transferred into my personal service immediately.”

  
Finally victorious, he wrote down his demands rather impolitely and after a brief moment of deliberation, added in his proper, Rausan name, Philippe, and the noble seal of his noble house, Andoval. He wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to irritate the Masters some more.

  
When he was done admiring his handiwork, he realized that the boy was staring at him openly, his jaw slack.

  
“Do you mean that, Master?”

  
“I thought you were supposed to be some sort of prodigy, why don’t you tell me,” Philo snapped. “Do you think I can simply let you walk away, after you saw the city’s secret defence plans? I’m stuck with you, obviously, unless you prefer the King’s Guard. That can also be arranged.”

  
“No, my lord,” the boy hurried to reply. His fingers grabbed the side of the desk tightly and his voice trembled as the words burst out of him, to Philo's utter and complete dismay.

  
“Thank you, Master. You’re very generous. I cannot tell you what this means to me. I think this is the best day of my life and I swear you will not regret it, Master. I will …”

  
“I am rather sure I will regret it,” Philo cut him off. He already did, a little, and couldn’t help but feel embarrassed by the boy’s gratitude. He’d been threatened, dragged, struck and terrified and he called this the best day of his life? “Flattery will get you places and specifically, out of my study.” He handed out the paper to the boy who took it with trembling fingers, without really meeting his eyes.

  
“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

  
“The three rules still apply, Glen,” Philo said sternly. “Plus, no more sneaking around this place or reading other people’s papers and – oh, do not, under any circumstances, touch my desk without explicit permission. Also, when you come back, bring a stick. Since we’re on the topic of rules, let’s see what can be done about your terrible habit of breaking them.”  
He feared another spectacle of terror and apologies, but what he got from the boy was a broad, honest smile.

  
“Yes, Master. I will.”

  
“What exactly about the prospect makes you so cheerful?”

  
Glen flushed a bright red. “Nothing, Master, except – well, it’s usually the strap here, Master.”

  
“Is it?” Philo asked confused. Keeper, had he actually dealt easier punishments than the norm? No wonder, then, people thought him something of an oddity, and no wonder they kept away. He obviously had a lot to learn about the habits here, but he’d already decided and couldn’t go back on his word.

  
“Make it a long one. I shall like to be able to poke at you from the other side of the room. I mean it,” he added, at the boy’s incredulous expression. “I always mean what I say. Now, go, get out. You troubled my universe long enough.”

  
“Yes, Master.” The boy bowed slightly and turned on his feet, storming out of the room and leaving Philo to stare after him.

That stick, he thought, will certainly be put to good use in the near future. But he could not prevent a small smile: Philo feared boredom at least as much as he feared spies, and expected this little experiment of his to be anything but.


	2. Chapter 2

“Cause, principle and unity,” Philo counted, holding up one finger at the time to punctuate his demonstration. “A cone is an altered pyramid, which is why the fundamental equation, one-third times base times hight, applies as well.

“Remember nature deals in complex shapes. So does architecture. Structure and combination are essential, but the substance remains always the same. Everything that makes up difference and number is accidental, mere alteration. If nothing else, try to at least keep that in mind after today.”

He dropped the piece of chalk, wiped his hands absently on the cloth, and sighed deeply, all too aware of the pointlessness of the exercise he was engaging in. It was, however, his duty to at least try to teach. “Any questions?”

He scanned the amphitheatre, which was, as always, rather empty – about one third, he computed, times actual number of seats. The class – noble scions of noble Legyan Houses, and of the Merchant Guild who hoped to one day buy their way into them, kept a guilty, fidgety silence.

Philo rolled his eyes openly and glanced somewhat expectantly over his shoulder, to where his former suspect, now personal slave and assistant, squatted, holding his half-rolled papers in his lap. His gaze was met by rigid shoulders and a mop of reddish brown hair in dire need of trimming: head bowed low, the boy was absorbed in taking down notes, and entirely missed his cue. Though it was hardly unexpected – during his lessons, Philo often threw at him comments and glances that the boy missed - he still experienced the stab of disappointment.

“Gentlemen,” Philo smoothly addressed the class. “You truly are the stars of your generation. A constellation, in fact, of the most obstinate ignorance and rustic imagination that would put the patience of a saint to the test. I am a mere human, and had enough. You are dismissed.”

The sense of relief in the amphitheatre was almost palpable. As the students left the room in disarray, Philo once more turned his attention to Glen. “Erase that, and gather those,” he said curtly. “Let's go.”

He needn't linger behind to watch his orders carried through. Instead, he headed towards his office, already able to predict how things would roll from now on. The boy would shot up from his place, clean the board where Philo had illustrated his lesson, gather his papers and those of his master, and then dash along the corridors to catch up with him - all of which performed with silent, meaningless efficiency that was driving him to the end of his wits.

Philo wasn't fooling himself; with his temper, it didn't really take a long trip there. But the whole situation was being so ridiculous that he often wondered what in the stars had possessed him to keep the boy around in the first place. He had the answers, of course: boredom, for once; and curiosity. And the opportunity to stir the sea of presumption and pedantry that made up the honorary society of his peers. And the fact that the boy was bright, perhaps the brightest Philo had met in his brief academic experience.

Pragmatism, Philo had ruled, explained the greatest part of his decision. Sound judgement dictated for potential such as that of the boy to be put to use. And yet, as one who'd dedicated most of his life to study, he'd seen potential wasted more often than not. Sometimes, the gift alone wasn't enough. It took hard work; it took never growing comfortable. It took always reaching out for more.

Not that the boy wasn't working. He was completing all the chores Philo left for him no worse than the average, random Academy slaves who had served him thus far, and certainly no better – except maybe for the “no touching the desk” rule, which Glen was observing with god-fearing devotion.

The rest of his time was spent doing exactly what Philo wanted him to do, which was building structure: Whatever knowledge Glen had acquired before was random, useless facts intertwined with the actually useful ones. Philo had set the order of his studies, the when and the where and the how, and watched them carried to the letter ever since.

The boy sat on his lectures, following which he returned to his office to read and draw in the corner that had been allotted him, until told otherwise. He never commented, never object – not as little as asking for details or clarifications. Even the long ash stick Glen had brought along on that first day remained where he'd left it, in the corner behind Philo's desk: nearly a moon later, and he hadn't had cause to use it.

If anything, the boy seemed more than content with the way things stood, with serving but one master instead of many, and one that wasn't asking that much of him to begin with. So maybe that's why no one ever bothered with teaching a slave: maybe they were more prone to growing comfortable than the norm, and if that was the case, the boy's potential would make no difference in the end. In effect, his impact on Philo's life amounted to specifically nil, a fact that shouldn't have left him as frustrated as he felt.

Maybe his frustration had more to do with his other plans, which had been equally thwarted. When he'd informed Cyrus that he'd had an Academy slave transferred to his personal estate, for consideration, naturally, the old master hadn't batted an eyelash.

“Very good, young man, very good. If that's the level of comfort you're accustomed to, I'm glad we were able to provide.”

Then he'd moved along, smiling almost affably at Philo, who was left to experience yet another humiliation. He was being once more dismissed on account of his age, while the Academy had gloriously met the challenge of “providing” for the King's obviously spoiled nephew.

The King – yet another touchy subject. He'd presented his designs to his uncle, and thought he'd been listened to, but the days dragged on and no answer had come. Not to him, and not to the Academy, as it appeared, and he had no clue what to make of the silence. He'd managed to confirm that the King was still raising monies for the walls. The masters' position on his drawings hadn't changed either, and if they envisaged an alternate, more traditional design, or if Simon was working on one, then everyone's lips were perfectly sealed – a kind of secrecy that was more than unlikely in this place where gossip travelled like air. Chances were there was no other design. Chances were nothing had changed. Nearly one moon, and things stood at a stifling status quo.

The sound of hurried footsteps reached him as he started up the stairs. Cheeks red and clutching the papers to his chest, the boy matched his stride so that he may trail behind – close enough to take orders, but not count as actual company. Philo loosened the silk scarf he wore around his neck, and crossed out the corresponding entry on his mental list of exasperating local habits: The one which required slaves to always make themselves as inconspicuous as possible, a preposterous game of make-believe which defied all five senses plus the sixth, more elusive one, which obviously wasn't as common as the sobriquet claimed it to be.

There were rules of etiquette in Rausa also, and boundaries, obviously, but they never went as far as pretending someone wasn't there when they obviously were. If one needed to converse with one's slave in public, because of urgency or simply boredom, or to make something remotely useful out of the amount of time it took to get from one place to another, they did. And when a person tried really hard to teach another one something, questions were being asked, damn it!

The only reason Philo hadn't tried to enforce his own code of conduct so far was that the boy didn't seem to have any, which made any potential conversation between them as intellectually stimulating as one he might carry with a wall.

This definitely wasn't what he'd envisaged when he'd first decided to keep him, but there was little he could do about it now. Unless the King ultimately dismissed his designs. In that case, he'd be in the position to safely get rid of the boy. It wasn't as though he'd seen the city secret defence plans, after all.

Philo stepped into his office, somewhat refreshed by a particularly creative stream of profanities he'd been devising along the way, and which he ought to write down in glorious detail – as things stood, he might have need to revert to it in the future. The boy joined him, sliding through the already closing door. Routine, routine, routine. Paying him no heed, Philo went through the papers flooding his desk in search of his notebook. He was already half through writing the thing down (poetry had nothing on it, really), when something at the edge of his awareness took to nagging at him.

He looked up, intrigued. For once, Glen hadn't taken his place at his small corner table. The papers had been left there, but the boy hovered in front of Philo's desk, hiding behind his too long hair, arms crossed over his chest.

“Just how long have you been standing there?”

The boy winced and ducked his head lower. “A little while, Master. I... hmm... I mean - ”

Oh, no! Babbling and stammering, for the stars! What little glimmer of hope had been there a moment ago was quickly fading into darkness. “What do you want?” Philo snapped.

The boy fidgeted visibly. “May I ask you something, Master?”

And there it was again - hope, like a distant beacon into the night! Philo's brows drew up, his interest piqued. He shouldn't expect much. He'd learnt long ago students never asked anything but silly questions. Still better than nothing, though. He grinned at the boy. “You just did. But yes. Do. Fire away.”

The boy still hesitated, shuffling his feet.

“Nothing you can possibly say will make me think any less of you,” Philo assured him, with complete honesty that must have carried through, because the boy seemed to finally make up his mind.

“I – what should I do about your laundry, Master?”

“My laun – What?!” Stunned at first, thinking that maybe he hard wrong, Philo jumped from his seat. “I swear, of all the vacant, clay-brained idiots that roam about this blasted place – Keeper!” He pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes, and shook his head in violent denial. “I can't believe it! On the god's blood, I swear I cannot!”

Philo stormed around the desk and halted abruptly in front of the boy. He gripped his arm and hauled him over, pinning him with his angry dark stare.

“Am I a bloody joke to you? No, don't answer that. Do not, don't you dare! I no longer care. I've tried. I've tried, but I can't do this, not for another minute,” he added heatedly, dragging Glen towards the door. The boy was shaking in his grip, but went after him easily. Not even trying to defend himself, and that only added to Philo's anger.

“You sat here, in this office, claiming you wanted to learn,” he barked. “Haven't I told you never to lie to me? For weeks I've been endeavouring to open your mind to the most real, powerful, beautiful parts of the universe, and all you do is follow me around like a mindless puppet! And then, when finally - finally! I dare hope you might actually possess a tiny bit of functional brain, what is the first thing that you say?”

He removed his hands abruptly. Glen stumbled back when released, face blank, eyes wide with shock. Philo fought for breath, part of him still waiting for the boy to say something. Of course, he didn't – apparently to him this wasn't worth putting up a fight.

“Get out,” Philo ordered, pulling the door open. “Get out of here, and never come back again!”

One moment, the boy stared at him dazed. The next, he slowly and stiffly started to back out of the room. Philo forcibly snapped the door shut behind him, and leaned against the wood, breathing through his anger, struggling to gain control of his temper. Nothing had changed, he repeated to himself like a mantra. All was as it used to be. He was once more alone.

***

Glen stared at the door, heart thumping painfully in his chest. Though it was hardly unexpected – the anticipation of this moment had been hanging over his head like the proverbial sword – it was still paralysing, and stifling – as though breath had been sucked from his lungs the moment it had snapped shut.

The thought had occurred to him on the very first day, once the initial excitement had worn off. He'd delivered the letter to the overseer, and then gone into the gardens, in search of the long stick the master had ordered him to provide, feeling giddy and light-headed, as if drunk on the season's sweetest wine.

Metaphorically speaking, of course: The only wine Glen had ever tasted – illicitly, while at it - had been discarded by the masters as overly sour. But it had still made him fuzzy and all warm on the inside, a feeling which seemed to expand inside his chest, while also leaving enough room for imagining the real thing. Well, this was the real thing, now. His miserable earlier performance and the array of emotions – curiosity and terror and pain and embarrassment and finally, finally hope – which Glen liked to believe accounted for it aside, he wasn't an idiot.

Master Philo had carried out an examination, not that different from the ones Glen had witnessed in the amphitheatres. An examination of him, which he'd passed since the master had decided to keep him, and why keep him in the first place, if he did not plan to allow him to learn?

At long last, someone had noticed him, the actual him and what he might do, given one meagre, pitiful chance. In point of fact, the only reason he wasn't on his way to the King's prison right about now, but swimming through sticky mud up to his ankles (it had been a downpour the night before), struggling to cut a branch as per specifications, was his mind: Spy or slave or flying dragon, him having seen the city's secret defence plans made him one thing, namely disposable.

Master Philo being the way he obviously was, under normal circumstances nothing would have prevented him from sending Glen down the path of torture and certain death. But because of his brains, he'd suddenly gotten everything he'd ever wanted in life, and getting what he'd always wanted was intoxicating, and it was also pure and simply –

Terrifying.

And just like that, he'd sobered up. Right there and then, as he was chopping the fresh branch clean, the handle of the knife had slipped through his suddenly numb fingers. As easy as he'd gotten it, he might also lose it. What if, on closer examination, the master decided he wasn't bright enough?

The impulse to run, just get far, as far away as he could, overpowered him. His heart raced madly, pumping the blood to his legs. His breathing was getting faster, as cold sweat broke through his skin. To have nothing at all was something Glen thought he'd gotten used to. But to finally have it, and then face the prospect of losing it was more than he could bear.

Glen had revealed all of his sins to Master Philo; no question remained of his inability to properly serve. He was dishonest, nosing around in the affairs of his betters, talkative, opinionated and nothing short of lazy, with his habit of rushing through his chores so that he might sneak into a lecture or the other. And clumsy, with his head in the clouds half the time. Panic had followed on the heels of that realization, surged up suffocating in his chest, cold and tight in his limbs. At best, he was a slave who hardly knew his place; at worst, he was a liability. His new master needed not revert to his genius to figure that out, and sooner or later he would.

Unless …

Just how difficult was it, really, being the perfect slave?

He already knew all the rules; stars, he'd been breaking them for years! His main reason for doing so in the first place had been his covetous desire to acquire knowledge. But if he was serving a master of the Academy, even as a mere slave, he would inevitably gain access to that. All Glen had to do in order to secure this new position for as long as he could was stop doing everything he'd been doing so far.

And just like that, the plan had taken shape into his mind.

Keeping his moth shut was a must. If there was one thing Glen knew from personal experience, was that sticks and stones may break his bones, but words had the potential to destroy him. His previous interaction with the master had given him the definite impression he wasn't that rare blend of madman who actually envisaged engaging in chitchat with a slave. And from there on, actually performing the chores was a place to start. Plus the three rules; the less Glen spoke, the better the chances to observe at least two of those. As for the third – well, he had to be careful not to seek justifications for himself when the master decided to punish him.

This was a brilliant plan. All he had to do was stick with it.

And he'd had. He'd followed it to the letter, never speaking unless spoken to, always careful to observe the customs of the Academy and his master's orders. To say it wasn't easy was the understatement of the century. In fact, it was all but driving him to the end of his wits, not to mention the end of his physical strength. But he wasn't about to give up. Glen gritted his teeth, and endeavoured to make it last.

The Academy slaves all shared dormitories in a remote wing of the institution's impressive cellars. Some of the students, especially the nobles, secured private rooms for their slaves, but Master Philo hadn't, and it wasn't as though Glen was privately owned, after all. His services were on mere lease, and he kept his place in the dormitory, as well as in the food line, whenever his new schedule allowed time for food.

He woke up with the other slaves, tended to Master Philo's breakfast (which he insisted on being brought to his room instead of in the hall, like the other masters), made the bed, juggled the trays up and down endless fleets of stairs for lunch and dinner (helping himself to more than generous leftovers) and accompanied the master to his lectures, trying to keep his head low so he wouldn't stir the interest of his students (a known fact being that interest from free men in their teens was seldom desirable).

Then, in the afternoons, when Master Philo went running for at least three leaps around the campus (yet another odd habit that was frowned upon), Glen gathered the clothes scattered all over his apartments, cleaned and oiled his boots, and did that again before going to bed, with the master's running shoes.

All of the above in between reading and drawing as the master commanded him, and where fatigue wasn't getting at him, this above all was a constant source of worry and frustration, an educated way of literately sucking the life out of him. When his head hit the pillow at night, Glen couldn't even bring himself to care about the foul odours and constant noise in the common dorm. He was gready for as much sleep as he could manage, for all that the theorems and principles and equations haunted his dreams.

The occurrence on the first day, when the master had deigned to actually explain things to him had proven singular. Other than the public lectures, which were, in Glen's honest if unnecessary opinion, fascinating, and awfully mean more often than not, he got nothing. He was terrified by the number of things he failed to comprehend, and by the sheer size of his list of questions. He was writing them down not in the hope for answers, but rather so that he could at least tell himself he was doing something about his ignorance, even as little as organizing his private form of chaos.

There was always the first command of keeping his mouth shut. If he was to be heard, the master would inform him, for certain. He hadn't, thus far, and determination aside, the whole situation was being simply ridiculous. Perhaps more than ever before, Glen was acutely aware of his low standing, but Master Philo was already breaking a significant set of rules by allowing him to read and attend the lectures. What then was the point of the whole exercise? In this Academy, when someone tried really hard to learn, the masters were supposed to explain, damn it!

But then again, he wasn't exactly 'someone'. He was nobody, or better yet, nothing. And these days there was no mistaking the master's lack of content with him.

Take those long, odd looks during the lectures; and the darker ones once they reached the rooms; the way he puffed and sometimes – more often of late – cursed under his breath; the way he sometimes paced around the place, while Glen was making himself as small as possible in his corner; and the way he'd been dropping whatever work he was engaged in and gone for earlier, longer runs over the past week.

And the silence; the silence in particular, as Glen could count the orders he'd been receiving, or the master otherwise addressing him, on the fingers of his hands and still have some to spare.

And all the while, the stick had remained by his desk, unused. For all his efforts, Glen was hardly perfect, but the master hadn't even stoop himself to correct him. No, he wanted to be rid of him.

The laundry disaster had been the last drop.

Glen had of course seen to the master's dirty clothes, gathered and folded them neatly and carried them to the cellars, only to have the laundrywomen sent him back the way he'd come from. This was the Academy, after all, and all of Master Philo's fine shirts were silk – obviously, no one had dared inform him this was hardly the place for fashion.

“Tell that fancy-pants master of yours we only do wool,” the superviser had told him. Then she'd measured him out with disapproving eyes. "And that it wouldn't kill him to buy you something decent to wear. You've gotten ink all over that."

Yeah, right; what were the chances? Glen had been desperately watching the pile of perfectly ironed shirts decrease with each passing day. He'd hoped to the last moment the master would call him and give instructions. When he hadn't, he'd gathered his courage and approached him, knowing he was really sticking his neck out there – which only brought him back to the matter of the stick that, in an optimistic scenario, might be put into use this time around. As for the pessimistic one, sufficed to say 'get out and never come back again' pretty much covered it.

He wasn't a total waste of a brain. He'd seen it coming. The rest, meaning the master's evil comments on his intellect, he'd had not, but it wasn't as though Glen could add new questions to his list. He'd left that in the Master's rooms, with the rest of his papers, when he'd started on his way to being sold or worse – imprisoned and tortured.

Way to go, genius.

Glen wiped angry tears from his eyes. His face was burning and there was a pounding in his temples, but he forced himself to think. Master Philo would be out for his run shortly. There was no telling what might ensue if he still found Glen here. And he was still an Academy slave, at least until further notice. One that had angered a master to the point of being discarded like a piece of used paper. There was really only one place for him to go.

The overseer was staring at him like he'd grown a third eye in the middle of his forehead.

“You did what?”

“I've gotten myself thrown out,” Glen repeated, louder this time around, because such a question, after the detailed if impersonal account he'd provided, only strengthened his long-shaped conviction that the man might have fallen from the slower side of the wagon. “Never to return again.”

“Those were his exact words?”

“To the letter.”

“And he didn't tell you where to go?”

“No, sir, he did not.”

“And what should I do about that, boy?”

Oh, for the stars! Glen wrapped his arms over his chest tightly. He was familiar with this particular routine, but couldn't he get a break once in a while? Was he about to suggest his own humiliation, when he'd already fallen so deep down he feared he might never pick himself up again? But then again, he was already down; and if Fate kicked him around a bit, he supposed she wasn't any different from the rest, the shrew! So have a field day, then. Glen gritted his teeth and lurched the words out.

“I should be punished, sir.”

The overseer rubbed at his nape. “That's none of my problem.”

“I'm sorry?”

“You ought to be. You were always trouble and sure deserve a good trashing, but I'm not the one to give it to you. I only handle Academy slaves, and you're privately owned. So the one you take this to, boy, is your master.”

“My - what?” Glen took refuge from new-found despair in his surprise. “I'm privately owned? Who owns me?”

The overseer threw him a long, harsh look that left little room for imagination as to his opinion of him, and Glen felt the heat rise to his face. He still could not believe his ears. “Master Philo actually bought me?”

“No wonder he threw you out, if you're dumb as wood.”

“But he doesn't want anything to do with me,” Glen uttered dismayed. “He doesn't even want to see me. He said not to go back. What am I to do now?”

The overseer lowered his eyes and pretended to study the register on his desk. “You still have your bed and your meals - at least 'till I'm notified otherwise. Now off you go, boy. I'm not paid to punish other people's slaves, and I already have my work cut out for me.”

The earth was shaking under his feet. Tears he could no longer hold back were flooding his eyes. On impulse, Glen turned on his heels and ran.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

“I take it life in the Academy isn't quite what you've imagined it.”

“Let's say I defined certain expectations on the basis of information I knew to be uncertain,” Philo said. “I did not set them very high, mind you.”

Dark and handsome, Sevier of Andoval cocked and eyebrow at him, an amused sparkle in his cold dark eyes. “But still you've fallen rather hard. You look terrible, Philippe. Are they starving you?”

“Worse. They feed me meat. At every single meal. There is, apparently, this scholastic current of opinion which claims men absolutely need it in order to keep a healthy body and mind.”

“And you obviously disagree.”

“I've lived the life of a student in Rausa, as well as Aselone, Carigal and Orween, Savier," Philo reminded him. "I'll eat anything; or none at all.”

“As simple as that? From your part?”

“It's not like they don't hate me enough as it is.”

Savier leaned forward and picked up his glass of thick Legyan wine. “They are the wise of the kingdom for a reason. Of course they hate you. You should be flattered, or feel nothing at all. Which is it?”

“There's hate and there's hate.” Philo sighed. “I should point out this isn't the reverent kind you're accustomed to.”

“They do not fear you.” Savier smiled again, a wry, crooked smile which reminded Philo of the boy he'd grown up with, a memory he found at times a bit scary. “Do you want them to, or to the contrary – you want them to like you?”

“I want them to leave me be,” Philo replied in a cranky tone. “Whatever their feelings, they're a hindrance.”

“I've forgotten you had an equation for a heart. One of the reasons why you're my favourite brother: You'd never stab me in the back. I realize you wouldn't bat an eyelash at the sight of my lifeless body, mind you. But you're more likely to compute the trajectory of the weapon than wield it yourself, because it takes a certain depth of feeling to do so, which you lack. To be honest, it’s rather refreshing. More wine?”

Philo placed his hand over his glass. “No, please. So as not to offend, I'd feel compelled to drink it.”

“So you're the white sheep of the family,” Savier laughed. “It doesn’t account for much when it comes to our Line. I trust most people would agree that you’re a horrible person nonetheless. Speaking of which: aren't you going to enquire about our dear Mother?”

“For all that I am, apparently, a ruminant, my nature isn't all that placid,” Philo said darkly. He gave his brother a long, assessing look. “You're in an awfully great mood. What brought that about?”

“Simple pleasures, little brother, are the best in life. I met a lovely girl, and bought her. Do not scowl, will you? I know for a fact you yourself acquired a slave recently.”

Philo's brows drew together. “Are you having me followed?”

“Why are you asking me questions to which you already know the answer?” Savier fired back smoothly.

Philo leaned his head on the backrest and sighed. He knew his brother all too well. “An exercise in rhetoric. Forget I ever asked.”

Savier laughed again. “There really isn't a political bone in your body. The second reason why you're my favourite brother. Next you'll tell me this isn't a courtesy call.”

“This isn't a courtesy call.” Philo placed his empty glass on the table. “Do you know whether the King's reached a decision on the matter of the city walls?”

“On your design, you mean.” Savier gave a quick, shrew glance. “So that's the reason you took your nose out of the books. In whatever state you happened to be in at the time. You do realize there's an ink stain on your shirt, don't you?”

“I'm aware of it,” Philo said annoyed. “I seem to have run out of things to wear.”

“Little wonder they hate you if that's what you wear at the Academy,” Savier said dryly. “ If I remember correctly, and humility is the foundation of wisdom, then you, my brother, are a madman. You flaunt your wealth and standing in a temple of modesty and noesis.”

“A temple of modesty that is in fact richer than the royal palace. It's such a sham, Savier. If it's one thing I'm fed up with, it's the hypocrisy. There is a stupid rule for everything. You know they even changed my name? I'm called Philo now, if you can imagine. I sound like an old pervert. It's pure and simply insane.”

“Ancient Cargese is the language of the sage," Savier observed coolly. "But I raise no argument on this particular point. It does have a certain ring of decrepit debauchery. What else?”

“I can't teach. All the students are idiots.”

“Why is teaching so important to you?”

Because, Philo thought, the spirit of the universe is infinite. One life, or a thousand came nowhere near comprehending it; less so if one generation after the next had to start all over again. Knowledge gained had to be passed on: revealing itself was the supreme reason of the universe, after all, and Philo considered actually explaining to him, but this was Savier, who already saw him as the weak underling.

“Someone has to do it; might as well be the best.”

“I should say this is as good an opportunity as any to build ties with the next generation of Legya's finest,” Savier observed. “But I won't, because it's you and I'd be wasting my breath. You truly want my counsel, Philippe? Wear woollen shirts more, and roll your eyes less.”

“I never roll my eyes,” Philo protested. Did he? And wool shirts, really? Some things were starting to fall into perspective, and he was not at all certain he liked the picture from this angle. “And I don't believe I possess anything of the sort.”

“Send your new slave boy to buy some for you.”

“I no longer have him either,” Philo confessed, feeling a bit silly. “Besides, I still suspect that's the worst piece of advice I ever received.”

“You sold him already? There's hardly any point to buying new toys if you're so quick to tire of them, you know. It makes far more sense to rent.”

“I didn't sell him. I but sent him away.”

“You but sent him away?” Savier wore a rare look of genuine amusement. “Philippe, for the stars! You paid a small fortune for the boy, and I hope you understand you'd been ripped off. Not that you can't afford it, but it's a little too much like sending your mount away, you realize.”

Was it? Philo blinked, confused. He hadn't, really. “You're being absurd. He's not a horse, he's a boy. He'll manage.”

“A boy slave,” Savier pointed out. “Whom you expect to manage on his own. Oh, this is delicious, brother mine! You should call more often. It's the most relaxed I've felt in ages.”

“I suppose it's my brotherly duty to entertain you,” Philo replied. He wasn't in the least amused. In fact, he was bothered, and not only because of the drawings, but an unfamiliar unease the cause of which remained hidden for the time being. “Do you also happen to have an answer to my question, or you'd rather not ruin your leisure?”

“I always have answers,” Savier said, growing sober again. “I meant it, little brother. Wear woollen shirts. It also wouldn't hurt you to compromise. Listen, Philippe. I know for a fact uncle dearest approves of your drawings. But most of the money to actually build it comes from the Merchant Guild, and the Guild won't lift a finger if the King's plans aren't sanctioned by their prized Academy first. And the Academy won't sanction them as long as you keep defying the masters. You need to lose a little in order to win more.

“The masters have their pride, also. What they do not posses, for the time being, is another option to present to the King. In his turn, our uncle neither envisages, nor does he encourage a different plan, I assure you. You understand, Philippe, it’s not a matter of reaching a decision. The King simply expects you to do what you must, so that he may enforce the one he’d already made. ”

“Not to mention what you expect of me," Philo remarked, just to let Savier know he wasn't fooled. As the King's heir in all but in name, his brother had designs of his own. But Savier, at least, was one member of the family he could actually stand, so he was willing to play along. “Any thoughts on how I am to accomplish all that?”

“You'll figure it out, for certain.” Savier smiled his crooked smile. “I am formidable, Philippe, but we both know you are the smart one.”

***

Philo had gone to see his brother during what he’d come to think of as his 'running time', a decision made on the spur of the moment, because the silence of his rooms was suddenly too quiet, and where he’d imagined he would experience relief after the incident with the boy, he could not shake off a lingering sense of irritation.

So he’d gone, all too aware that he’d fall in the middle of one of Savier’s plots as easily as an unsuspecting fly inside a shiny spider web. His brother held the title and the position as head of their House, after all. Court intrigue games and political manipulation came with the territory: in light of their earlier conversation little doubt remained in his mind that had he not gone searching for Savier, one of these days he would have heard from his brother anyway.

He wasn’t exactly opposed to Savier using him, though, at least not as long as Philo got something out of it. And however he might fit into his brother’s plans, he was, at least, willing to support Philo’s – provided, however, that he was in his turn willing to reach a compromise with the masters of the Academy. Whom he despised, and who, for all accounts and purposes, hated him. One that, for certain, involved him accepting what felt like an indefinite amount of humiliation – indefinite in the sense that it could only grow, when and if he reverted to the 'flexible' approach. And that was a an unlikely 'when' and a huge 'if'.

But still, there was that accursed temptation to build.

His thoughts were more than mere paper, damn it! They could be turned into one of the world's wonders, the likes of which no other city possessed; a work of art comparable with the Twin Towers of Carigal that, after centuries, still remained the most admired building in the civilized world. Or to the Haven of Aselone, standing on tall pillars on the amazing waterfront. A masterpiece, in a nutshell, the making of which rested heavily on trivial determinants such as gold and compromise and politics.

Something, Philo reckoned, was definitely wrong with the way of the world.

And something was definitely wrong with him, or at least that part of his mind which kept playing the incident with the boy over and over, the absurd – he couldn't exactly call it argument, not when he'd done all the screaming and the yelling. Only, it didn't seem all that absurd all of the sudden, not in a place where one's apparel triggered complications such as those Savier had felt compelled to explain to him. Glen had lived in the Academy all his life; was this the meaning he was trying to convey?

Philo froze in the middle of the road, oblivious to the crowd all but bumping into him, and considered all the data.

At some point, not that Philo could say exactly how and when, his silken shirts had obviously become the boy's problem, one that had been too much for Glen to handle, despite his familiarity with the intimate resorts of the Academy. For the stars, were the masters actually making a statement using something as petty as Philo's dirty laundry?

Of course they were! Those whited sepulchers would stop at nothing in order to put him in his rightful place - or better yet, their definition of it. While he'd been not only standing by, but also providing them the means to do so!

High time to prove Savier wrong: Philo could be a politician, the only reason he hadn't thus far contemplated this particular choice of carrier being that he'd rather use his brain to full capacity, as opposed to merely those parts which were self-serving and manipulative and greedy. But he could do it. He could damn do anything once he put his mind to it, because really – genius?

Instead of heading back to the Academy, Philo took a sudden turn towards Seranne, the city's glamorous shopping area, and ended up acquiring some ridiculously expensive woollen shirts. Then - arms already full of packages - he stopped by the Royal Bakery and bought a box of exquisite lemon cakes, reckoning he deserved a treat, after so heroically having endured all that meat. But there was still an off feeling about things, as though along the way he might have forgotten something.

It only occurred to him when, back in his room, anticipating his congratulatory feast, he took to putting his papers in order for the next day’s lesson. That particular type of activity normally involved turning most of the place upside down, and today was no exception to the rule. The only unusual occurrence being that, in the middle of his complicated sorting process, his eyes fell on something that looked very much like a list of questions; one that someone might put together while attending his lessons. Not just anyone, though, but something rare, rarer than, for instance, a flying dragon, a peculiar sort of creature Philo was starting to suspect was only born once every century:

A student.


	4. Chapter 4

Glen bent his elbows on top of the table and took his head between his hands.

The lectures of the day had long ended. The Academy halls were empty, the students engaged in their studies or, more likely, in their drinking and chasing after pretty merchant girls. In the deserted library, the a sweet spring breeze played the white curtains. There was the comforting silence, and the familiar smell of old books. It almost felt like a safe place, for all Glen knew that it wasn't one.

His feet had eventually carried him here after having run from the overseer's office with no particular purpose in mind, no idea as to where he might go. But this made sense; the library had always been his refuge. They knew him here, especially in light of the fact that over the last weeks, Master Philo had sent him to retrieve books once or twice after classes; it wouldn't be all that strange that he'd returned again.

The old librarian – a freed man who had once been a slave of the Academy – hadn't spared him as much as a glance when he'd crept towards the back, sitting at the small table usually reserved for scribes. There, hidden from sight, he'd finally let his tears of despair and frustration fall until there wasn't any left. At first, he'd expected the King's soldiers to make an appearance any minute in order to take him away, but they hadn't, and after a while Glen had started to suspect they won't. That the master hadn't bothered to call them; he'd just kicked him out, and that was the end of it.

For the first time in his long history of sneaking into the library, Glen felt uneasy sitting there alone. So this is, he thought, how it really feels not to belong. His master had thrown him away, the Academy wanted nothing to do with him. He was trespassing, and his offence was far more serious than before, when all he risked was a meeting with the overseer's strap.

Glen had no idea what might happen if he were to be found now; no idea in the least where to take it from there, only that he had to manage somehow. He was in a place filled with books, and books always had answers to everything. After hours of reviewing cannons and protocols, however, the conclusion he was coming to did very little to lift his spirit.

“Property is deemed abandoned if discarded by owner with no intention of reclaiming or repossessing it. Abandoned property becomes the property of whoever should find it and take possession of it first.”

There was nothing else. No particular provision for the occurrence when the property in question happened to be a slave. The general rule was all there was.

“Whoever should find it and take possession of it first.”

That meant anyone; anyone at all – except nobody wanted him here. Panic was twisting his stomach in tight knots. A stranger could simply come in from the street, just grab him and there was nothing at all Glen could do.

“Put that aside. Unless you're interested in the study of law, in which case put it aside, anyway. The city is swarming with vermin as it is.”

Glen's jaw dropped. Master Philo was standing on the other side of the table, watching him with a focused if otherwise cryptic expression. He was dressed – wonder of wonders – in a soft woollen shirt, and carried a nicely wrapped paper box in his hand. Glen sprang to his feet, unmindful of the aches and pains in his numb body. The stool bounced back against the wall. The master, as usual, rolled his eyes.

“No, no, sit,” he ordered. Then, to Glen’s utter shock, he placed the box on the table and planted himself on the opposite chair, extending his long legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankle. Glen complied stiffly, perching on the stool. The faint scent of wine was about him, something which in Glen's opinion foretold disaster. His face must have reflected the same thought, because the master shook his head deliberately and smirked.

“That is an extremely far-fetch assumption, I assure you.” There was an undercurrent to his voice, which wasn't exactly unfamiliar, but Glen still could not define. “You're also jumping to conclusions with that book. This isn't in any way an instance of abandoned property.”

Glen swallowed around the lump in his throat; not abandoned and no soldiers around. His mind was spinning fast. “Am I being sold?”

“You are being ridiculous,” the master said, but somehow lacking the usual edge. “On the same note, were you planning to hide in here forever? No thoughts of coming back at all?”

Coming back? In what world was that decision even remotely up to him? Glen heaved a long breath and quoted from memory. “You said never come back. You always mean what you say.”

“At the time when I say it I do, for certain. Have you eaten?”

All Glen could do was stare and gawk. How in the stars did food fit in all this? His heart was in his mouth. Not quite trusting himself to speak, Glen gave to shake his head. The numbing tension in his shoulders opposed the motion. He tried again, and finally something gave.

“Good, me either.” The master reaped the box open, and the citrus flavour filled the air. Glen darted a suspicious glance up, and his eyes widened. The package revealed small pieces of buttery, tender and definitely decadent lemon cake. Looking like the proverbial cat about to swallow the canary, Master Philo picked up a piece, and stopped short of taking his first bite to nod at him encouragingly. “Go on, try it.”

This was some weird dream – or a really, really mean trap. Under no real life circumstances would the master be feeding him lemon cake the likes of which he'd never seen, less alone tasted before. As the same master was now pursing his lips, his face a shade darker, the scale of probabilities tipped decisively towards 'highly unlikely'. Glen frowned reluctantly at the dish and made no move to touch it.

“If I always mean what I say, I must also mean for you to have the cake,” the master observed shrewdly. “So there.”

Patience; that was the odd note to his voice. He remembered it now, from that one time when the master had shown him the plans and was trying to get his point across. Glen had no clue what the point was this time, but opposition was futile. He reluctantly picked up a slice, still half-expecting to have his hand struck down as he reached out for it. The prospect was frustrated, however. Master Philo turned his attention to the piece he still held almost reverently, and which quickly disappeared inside his mouth.

Slowly, hesitating, Glen took a small bite. It was – well, buttery; and soft; and flavoured. And disgustingly sweet. It made his stomach twist, in point of fact. He ventured a quick glance, in an attempt to guess the master's intentions, and discovered a shocking sight: If someone would have asked, Glen might have sworn 'sweet' wasn't a notion his master was in any way familiar with, but Master Philo didn't look anything if not delighted, savouring the syrupy taste.

“I came across your list of questions, by the way,” he remarked oh-so-casually. “You know what I'm talking about, don't you?”

Glen all but dropped his piece of cake. “Yes, Master.”

“Right,” the master said. “They are... hmm – "

Stupid, Glen supplied inwardly, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Of course they were, and he wouldn't be spared the humiliation. The master swallowed down another mouthful of cake.

“– a step forward,” Master Philo went on, oddly generous. “How come you never asked any of them?”

A step forward towards where? Not knowing what to make of this, Glen lowered his eyes again. “I never knew I could,” he confessed – to the floor.

He realized he'd given the wrong answer when the master's hand that had been navigating towards the cake at a definite 'intercept' angle, incurred a sudden and unfortunate change in trajectory towards his pocket. Master Philo then produced a handkerchief, tilting his head to look at him better while in the process of wiping the icing from his fingers.

“You’re still being ridiculous,” he said, surprisingly gentle. "Of course you could. I'm your teacher.”

Right; for all that he wanted to, and realized to do so was in his best interest – Glen really didn't have the excuse of folly here, and not an insignificant part of his brain screamed he was being an idiot – he couldn't find it in him to agree with that particular statement. He carefully placed the uneaten cake on the table, and kept his eyes glued to his feet. The master sighed deeply.

“All right, let's try another way. Do you still remember those rules?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Name the third one.”

“No lies.” Glen bit into his lips. “I haven't broken it, Master.”

“Debatable, but it's a fine line, so I'll grant you that. Do not start now. Tell me why you disagree with my statement. Take your time if you must, but I want to hear.”

Glen twisted his hands in his lap, looking up at the master from under the protection of his overgrown locks. Rules were good - they were supposed to make things easier, but talking to the master remained, without a shred of a doubt, the hardest thing he'd ever had to do “You're my master.”

“Exactly what I said. But?”

“No.” Glen shook his head, and the movement, as well as the weight of the words, brought back the pounding of drums in his temples. “You're my master.”

***

“Oh.” Philo nodded, finally grasping his meaning. Oh! “Yes, I suppose I'm that also.”

After having met his briefly, the boy's green eyes fell away. Philo opposed the impulse to grab his shoulder and shake him a little – he'd decided to be patient, after all, and his efforts were paying. This was far better than the mindless puppet act, for all that he had to pull the words out of Glen's mouth. But there was little joy in his victory, because they stung a little – a little more, if he were to be entirely honest. How was this kid's brain even wired, to focus on such secondary issues, as opposed to the material ones, namely the efforts he'd made all this time to educate him?

But taking in the boy's appearance – the unruly, overgrown ginger curls falling over his drawn, angular face, and the tight line of bony shoulders under his atrocious, ink-spattered Academy issued shirt, and putting together what he'd discovered earlier, when he'd first gone looking for Glen, before it had occurred to him that the library was the actual place to start – well, it didn't seem all that inconsequential. There was also Savier's amusement at Philo believing that the boy would manage on his own. He wouldn't, really. He was a dependent for which Philo was expected to provide, while he hadn't even stopped to consider he was responsible for another life. This slave owning thing was such an awful complication! He'd been quick to contradict him earlier, but with Philo as a master, little wonder Glen saw himself as abandoned property.

“Though I'm obviously terrible at it,” Philo said, and for some inconceivable reason, his ears felt terribly warm. “What?” he asked, when the boy threw him yet another of those leery, and yes, decidedly reproving looks. “You're of a different opinion?”

“I don't think you're half bad, Master.”

“Quite frankly, I can't imagine your arguments being all that sound, but for the sake of demonstration, let's hear them.”

The red on Glen's high cheeks stood at odds with the ghostly white around his eyes. Otherwise, his face was devoid of expression. “You hit me.”

That old incident? Philo's eyebrows went op. “Once. And I only did it to scare you into talking, so that I wouldn't have to hand you over to the royal guard, to be imprisoned and tortured to death, and you damn well know it. In point of fact, I saved your life. You could show a bit of feeling.”

“You bought me,” the boy went on, voice equally blank.

“Right. It seemed like the practical thing to do. Quickest, also - you can't imagine the bureaucratic complications. Besides -” Philo rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Ethics is hardly my field.”

“You threw me out."

“From my room, where I never even let other students come in,” Philo parried. "That must account for something."

“But Master,” the boy protested, more vigorously than Philo would have expected from him. “I didn't do anything wrong.”

“Why don't we go over what you've been doing, then? What was it, again? Ah, my laundry. Cleaning my rooms, I bet, because that was you, wasn't it?” The boy nodded feebly, a timid confirmation that only kindled Philo's exasperation, which was, surprisingly enough, aimed at nothing less than the world.

“Remind me again at which point did I say you could waste precious time playing at my … bloody gentleman's gentleman, instead of reading and drawing and oh, paying attention to my lectures, so that you could maybe actually learn something. You can't, can you, because it never happened!”

“I'm sorry.” Faster than Philo could spell 'integral', the boy stiffened on the edge of the chair, and his expression shifted to one of wretched understanding. “I'm sorry, Master.” He swallowed hard, chest raising and falling faster. “That has always been my job, and I assumed … You never said. Ever. Stars, I really screwed up, didn't I?”

“Yes,” Philo confirmed with heartfelt conviction. “But that's fine. You're fine, you're expected to screw up. I, on the other hand, should have known better. I should have told you not to do any of that, but I didn't even notice, because quite frankly, I couldn't care less.” He should also have realized that his methods failed to work, and change them instead of expecting his students to change around them. He needed to reach them, so that they might speak to him – he couldn't very well imagine what parts of his lectures remained unclear. “In comparison, my screw-ups are nothing short of epic.

“But,” he went on, reaching up to push those absurd curls out of the boy's face. “Look at me, will you? I am better than that,” he stated, as the boy slowly and mistrustfully met his eyes. “I can do better. It's my duty, and I will. However, I might not always know. That's why I need you to tell me.”

The boy was dumbfounded. “But – what if I can't do better, Master? And then - ”

“You can do better, also,” Philo asserted. He heard the boy's unspoken question, but chose not to address it for the time being. It won't come to that. He had his intuition, as well as actual written proof now. From what he could tell based on that list, the boy built his theories on less than sound premises, meaning they were wrong more often than not, but that did not make the underlying rationale less brilliant.

“I'm certain. But you absolutely must speak up when you feel you have something to ask. My rules, Glen, were meant to govern our interactions. There's hardly any point to them if there aren't any.”

The boy seemed to actually consider it. “And I won't be punished for that,” he stated very carefully.

“No.” It was best to be frank, wasn't it? “If you don't count blows to your ego, that is. Of which there will be a fair amount, I must warn you.”

He could, however, see how he was failing to be entirely convincing. "Even if the questions are wrong?"

"I'll make you a deal: from this day on, all the questions are right. It will, however, be up to me when and how to answer them."

“What about questions you don't like, Master?”

"For the millionth time, no. Come on. Try one."

The boy gave the tiniest flinch before seeming to make up his mind. “All right. The principle of unity: your lessons are mathematics, but they're also philosophy, because the substance of all knowledge is unique. So in a way, all disciplines are facets of the same coin.”

“Yes,” Philo said, feeling refreshingly hopeful. “Indeed.”

“And the principle applies to everything.”

“Certainly.”

“Does it apply to people? Are people all the same?”

“Essentially, yes, although that's oversimplifying a bit.”

Glen's eyes flickered away. “You and I aren't,” he stated slowly.

Philo shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “No, we aren't. With people, there is always the alteration,” he explained. “The specific difference that matters.”

The boy returned a sour, tight smile. “Your lesson didn't mention any exceptions, master.”

Philo's brows drew together. “Are we actually having this conversation where you're short of calling me a hypocrite?”

“Are you teaching something you yourself don't believe in?” the boy fired back.

“I am teaching what I know. And I know I am better than most people. I am better than you, and will be for a very long time. On the other hand, if I decided to teach you it was because I believe you can learn. That there is at least a chance you'd be just as good one day – far away into a potential future, mind you – and perhaps better. In my opinion that pretty much makes us the same.”

By some major effort of will, the boy met his eyes again. His face was burning red. “I'm sorry,” he blurted out. “I didn't mean to offend -”

“I think we need to work on that honesty rule a little. You know, just to keep things polite,” Philo said coolly. “That's only so much I can take, and when you decide to speak, you apparently don't mince words.”

But he was pleased, more than anything. It was surprising, really – the question hadn't been on his list, and the topic was more daring than he would have anticipated from the boy. In terms of steps forward, this was more of a leap.

“Look, this is complicated. It's the kind of question people have been endeavouring to answer for aeons. Definitely not a topic to be exhausted today.” Shrugging one shoulder, Philo picked up another slice of cake. In-between bites, he reached inside his pocket and threw a small key on the table.

“Going back to more pressing matters, I leased a room for you in the underground floor. That common dorm is not the suitable place to take my books in.” Hardly suitable for life, really; he'd never seen a more dreadful place – so many people, hardly the basics, and no privacy whatsoever. Maybe that was the thing turning the delicious cake in his mouth a bit sour.

Philo hadn't even imagined such place might exist. He'd been taking all the comforts of his life for granted. He knew, in a remote way, that there was an army of people, compelled to hard work for the sake of their masters, who could be bought and sold and punished, and that the law qualified as property. He'd never thought about how their actual lives might be, and how all that lined up with the principle he believe in. He'd been walking around with his head in the clouds, and entirely failed to notice the mud which had been crawling up to his knees. He absolutely needed more time to think about that.

Glen's mouth was literally hanging. “Thank you,” he uttered, his eyes wide and oddly vulnerable. “I'm really, really sorry, Master.”

“Why are you sorry for this time around?”

“I used to think you're really, really mean,” the boy confessed, remorseful. He bit into his lips, and went on reluctantly. “I... hmm... I think the overseer would be willing to punish me for you, if you pay him.”

The corners of Philo's mouth twitch with a disdainful smile. “He actually offered earlier, but I could think of more creative ways to accomplish that, which don't involve gold leaving my pocket. I have better use for it, anyway. I need to buy you some new clothes, and boots. You and I are going to walk those ramparts, and prove my calculations are right.” That should put an end to the masters' opposition. Perhaps, Philo mused, he should purchase a commission in the army. If he was to do their job, he might as well hold an officer title.

“Are you really taking me into town, Master?”

“Yes, of course. Why?” He swallowed down a mouthful of cake. “Oh, this is really finger-licking. When we go to town, I'll be sure to get more.”

“I've never been into town,” Glen confessed. “I've never been anywhere, really.”

“Well, you're going.” He eyed the slice of cake the boy had abandoned on the table. “Aren't you finishing that?”

“I – uh...” The boy gave an embarrassed half-smile. “With your permission, no.”

“Why in the stars not?”

“If you don't mind, Master … food is actually forbidden in the library.”

His weak attempt at diplomacy wasn't having Philo fooled. “You don't like it?”

“It's very nice. Just – a bit too sweet, if I may say so, Master.”

Philo could hardly believe his ears. “You know the King eats this, right? What then do you like?”

“I - meat, maybe, Master?” The boy shrugged. “Steak. Definitely that.”

Stars and suns, the brainwashing effect of this Academy went deeper than Philo'd initially envisaged. “I am not buying you steak,” he ruled. “But you may have my lunch and dinners.” He wasn't touching those, for sure.

“Clean this up, will you?” He stood up, pointing at the leftover cake. “And put that law book aside. I'll pick something else for you to read. I mean it, Glen. I don't want you touching any law book for at least a couple of years.”

The boy's hands halted on the sad remains of the paper box. “Why not, Master?”

“Because,” Philo sighed. “You must learn the perfect rules of nature before you pollute your mind with the flawed ones people make.” The boy already knew enough of those; he had but to hope he wasn't arriving too late.

Glen nodded slowly. “I understand, Master.”

“Good.” Philo gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder and walked away. That had gone well, but his mind wasn't at ease. Evening was setting over the world, and the Academy was quiet and peaceful, hiding behind its imperfect concepts, its long-set customs and protocols. But with the insight that for him was typical, Philo could not shake off the feeling it was specifically the calm that foretold a storm.


End file.
